


The Machine's Coffee is the Best in Town

by waterbird13



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Coffeeshop AU, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Robbery, Root/Sameen Shaw (background relationship), mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-01-20 14:58:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1514678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterbird13/pseuds/waterbird13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reese works at a coffee shop cleverly called the Machine, where he serves tea to the mysterious Harold twice a day. His co-worker Shaw encourages him to forget about his curiosity regarding the strange man, but he can't stop wondering about him. He gets his chance to find out more after a bizarre, frightening day at the Machine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [somefantasytosurvivereality](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somefantasytosurvivereality/gifts).



> Hello all--  
> Those of you who know me know this is a departure from my usual work. My lovely sister, who this work is gifted to, requested that I make my first foray into the POI fandom with a coffee shop AU, and here is my attempt. It is a Rinch piece, although this first chapter is all pre-relationship. Be warned that there is a mild level of violence in this fic.  
> Hope you like it, and, since this is the first time I've tried POI or Rinch or coffee shop AUs, please let me know what you think.

            The coffee shop— _The Machine_ —opens at six, which means Reese has to be there to open by five thirty.

            It’s not that hard for him to do so; the military isn’t exactly known for sleeping in and his ex-military father didn’t encourage it either. He hasn’t yet broken the habit of rising before the sun. So taking the morning shift isn’t much of a burden.

            It’s even less of a burden when the funny little man walks in at six fifteen, like clockwork.

            “Morning, Harold,” Reese greets, already turning to make the Sencha Green Tea. It feels strange to call a customer by his first name after so many years of “yes sir, no sir,” but “Harold” is the only name he knows for the man. He comes in every day, pays cash, and gives them nothing more than “Harold” to mark the cup with.

            Harold nods and gives the little quirk of the lips that serves as his smile, stepping up to the counter as quickly as his limp can manage. Reese hasn’t exactly figured out the full extent of his injuries yet. From what he can tell, it’s a bad leg, a bad back, and a bad neck, though how he got those injuries is anyone’s guess. If Harold were a soldier, though, Reese would say roadside bomb.

            Maybe Harold was a soldier, he thinks. Or maybe he’s a librarian or a janitor or a banker. Any guess is just as likely as the next. Reese really doesn’t know anything about the funny little man who comes in for his tea fix early every morning.

            “Good morning, Mr. Reese,” Harold says in that voice that always makes Reese feel like he’s being watched by a particularly stern teacher. “I’d like a cup of Sencha Green Tea. Medium, please. Oh, and a blueberry muffin.”

            Reese nods and continues making the order. He knows by now to just let Harold say it all. The first time he’d cut Harold off and reassuringly said he knew, Harold had given him a suspicious look for days, as if knowing the order you hear every morning by heart is a strange thing. So now he lets him say it while he makes it.

            He’s halfway through making the order when Shaw walks in from the back, throwing her apron on and tying her hair back. On anyone else, the moves would be rushed, harried, but on Shaw they are the picture of efficiency. On Shaw, just about everything is the picture of efficiency and slightly frightening to boot, which is what makes her so good at her job.

            “You’re late,” he observes quietly as she walks behind him.

            “Stow it,” she suggests, and it’s not particularly mean but it’s not joking either. He just keeps getting Harold’s order together. That’s just Shaw being Shaw.

            Reese hands over Harold’s order and the man steps down to the register to pay Shaw for it. Then he hobbles out the door, turns right, and walks out of sight.

            Reese turns to see Shaw watching him. “You need to let it go,” she says.

            “What?” he asks, busying himself with the paper coffee cups.

            “Him,” she says. “This…curiosity. Let it go. Guy’s never gonna tell you anything.”

            “That’s what makes me so curious,” he points our wryly. “You know anything I don’t?”

            “No,” Shaw says. “Unlike you, I don’t need to. Do your job, serve the guy his tea, that’s it.”

            “Where’s your initiative?” Reese teases.

            She makes an inelegant huffing sound. “Reese, I’m making eleven bucks an hour to make coffee. It buys my textbooks, it pays the bills. I don’t ask questions, I do my job. No initiative required.”

            He nods slightly to acknowledge the point. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to stop watching Harold.

            It’s quiet for another forty minutes, only three people coming through, getting quick coffee fixes before the early shift.

            At about seven thirty the two detectives walk through the front door, Fusco rumpled and his tie crooked, Carter as pristine and well-put-together as ever. “Morning,” Reese offers with a little smirk. Carter smirks right back.

            “Morning, John,” she says. “Hear anything good today?”

            It’s not that out-there a question. Sometimes Reese does hear something around the Machine or around his apartment building—not exactly in the best neighborhood—that’s useful to Carter and Fusco. The detectives come in for the occasional useful piece of gossip from Reese and Shaw as much as they do the coffee.

            But today he shakes his head. “My landlord’s trying to rip off old ladies. I’ll take care of it,” he says mildly.

            Carter huffs. “Don’t take police business into your own hands, John.”

            “Relax,” Reese says, smiling a bit. “I’m just gonna talk to him.”

            She looks him up and down, doubtful. “Sure you are. Anything else?”

            “Nothing. You want coffee?” he asks rhetorically, already getting together two cups of black, strong coffee.

            “Coupl’a donuts, too, there, boss,” Fusco instructs, eyes glued to the sprinkle-covered donuts in the display case.

            Reese pulls out two and hands them over along with the coffee, sending the two detectives off to pay Shaw. They get a discount, like all law enforcement officials do. It’s something that the owner insists on. Not that Reese has ever met the owner. Even at his hiring, he’d only ever met another manager.

            The two detectives sit at their table and drink their coffees before Carter pulls out a file and opens it across their table. Reese starts to make another set of coffees, knowing any second now Carter is going to flag him down for them. Some days the detectives can sit there for hours, drinking coffee and studying files or doing paperwork. No one will bother them here, unlike at the precinct, Fusco says.

            Sure enough, Carter calls for another two coffees and sends Fusco up to pay for them while Reese finishes making them, handing them off to the detective when he’s done.

            By this time, more and more customers are coming in, so Reese and Shaw get busy, taking and filling orders. Most people take their coffee and pastries to go, but the tables fill up and the noise level rises to a low hum. The cops leave to go back on duty around nine thirty, freeing up another table for customers.

            It’s eleven on the nose when Harold limps back through the door. The line has died down but isn’t quite gone, so Reese has to wait for Harold to get to the front of the queue to make his order.

            He gets together another tea together and smiles at the odd little man while he pours it. “How’s your morning been?” he asks.

            Reese isn’t exactly known for being friendly and invested with his customers. He’s nice enough—nicer than Shaw—and he smiles and is polite for the most part. But besides Carter and Fusco and Harold, he doesn’t really take an interest in him.

            Not that Harold encourages such an interest. He gives Reese a suspicious look as Reese writes _Harold_ across the cup. “Fine,” he grudgingly says.

            “Good to hear,” Reese says with his best attempt at a relaxing smile as he hands the cup over. “Enjoy your afternoon.”

            Harold is still looking at him out of the corner of his eye, but Reese doesn’t think he scared him too badly. At least, he hopes not. It would be a shame for Harold to disappear for a week again, or worse, to disappear permanently this time.

            Reese turns to the next order and amuses himself by mentally guessing what career Harold might hold. He’s getting into jobs he doesn’t fully understand—what does an arbitrage actually do, anyways?—when he hands the next person their coffee and chances a look over at Harold, who’s reaching into his pocket for his wallet. Harold must feel his eyes and looks over, forcing Reese to look away quickly. His eyes lock on the door and the new customers that have just come through it.

            His mind takes half a second to conclude that ski masks and handguns mean that these guys probably aren’t customers. Shaw sees it too and Reese watches her pull her cellphone out of her pocket—which she’s not supposed to have during working hours, but Reese isn’t exactly going to complain—and dial 9-1-1. She sets the phone on the back counter and leaves the line open.

            “Down on the ground,” one of them barks, and all the customers get out of their seats or out of the line to get down on the ground.

            All of them except Harold, who looks like he’s having a tough time getting himself in that position. His body clearly does not bend and move so easily anymore, and certainly not easy enough to get down without falling.

            “I said _down_ ,” the man barks again.

            “I’m…I’m afraid I can’t,” Harold says, his voice shaking a bit.

            He doesn’t take it well and shoves Harold, who goes sprawling. “Hey,” Reese snarls, unaware he’s going to say something until they words are already out. One of them still has a gun on Harold, and one of them turns to point at Reese. “Leave him alone,” Reese says, voice quiet but firm. “He’s down.” He turns to look at the man, prone on the floor. “You okay, Harold?”

            “I’ll be fine, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, but he sounds like he’s in a lot of pain.

            “He’s not gonna be fine if you don’t empty the register,” the one with the gun pointing at Reese spits. “Be quick about it, or we’ll shoot him and then you.”

            Reese could point out that Shaw is working register, not him, but he doesn’t say anything, just keeps his hands in plain sight and slowly walks over to the register. He counts the minutes off in his head. It’s been almost three since Shaw made the call. The police will be here any minute now.

            The machine is designed not to open unless there’s an order keyed in—it’s meant to prevent employees from skimming from the register—so Reese talks through what he’s doing in his usual quiet, soothing voice. There’s a gun still pointed at him and one at Harold and one more pointing at people randomly besides, and he does his best to keep everyone calm.

            “I have to key in an order, to open it,” he says. He tells the machine someone bought a large coffee and paid with a twenty. The drawer obediently springs open.

            There’s a few hundred dollars in there. They don’t keep a lot around and run the excess to the bank next door several times a day. Shaw was due to run over after her shift ended.

            Reese looks up, makes eye-contact with the one pointing a gun at him. “Got a place for me to put this?”

            He’s handed a bag and begins to methodically load in the money, not slow enough to look like he’s stalling but not exactly fast, either.

            “Where’s the rest?” the man barks when he realizes Reese is done.

            He shrugs. “All we got,” he says.

            “Bullshit,” the one with the gun on Harold snarls. “You’re holding some back.”

            “Look, I don’t know what to tell you. It’s all we have.”

            “Gimme the rest or I shoot your friend,” he says.

            Reese is genuinely worried for a moment, not sure what he can do to appease them, but then the door opens and armed police officers swarm in.

            “Put your weapons down,” Carter commands, her voice like steel, “and get on your knees, hands on your heads.” Two of them do as told, clearly seeing they have no way out, with the exit blocked with eight police officers. But the third isn’t ready to give up.

            Quick as a flash, the guy on Harold is hoisting him up by the back of his shirt, pulling him in close with an arm braced across his torso, the other holding a gun to Harold’s head. Everyone in the room seems to freeze for a moment.

            “Let me get the money and go or I shoot the cripple in the head,” he commands.

            “Not going to happen,” Carter says confidently, her gun trained on the man.

            “Look lady, you could probably shoot me, but I guarantee I can shoot him, blow his brains out, is that what you want?”

            “I can’t let you walk out of here,” Carter says. “And you really don’t want to add kidnapping or murder to the list of charges.”

            “I’m gonna grab the cash,” the man says confidently. “And he and I are gonna walk outta here. I’ll let him go once I’m safe.” He starts to back up, keeping Harold between him and the cops, getting closer to the money.

            “Hand him the bag,” the man instructs Reese without turning his head. Harold reaches back one shaky hand, clearly intending to take the money from Reese as instructed.

            Reese makes a split-second decision. He gives Carter a little nod, the only heads-up he can provide, and jerks the man’s gun arm back, pulling the muzzle up and away from Harold. The man grunts, loosens his hold, and Harold ducks out of his arm and scurries to the side as fast as he can go.

            They’re still scrapping for the gun, Carter’s officers clearly unaware of what to do, leery to shoot lest they hit Reese. Reese takes a sharp elbow to the side of the head but holds on. He eventually gets the leverage he needs to force the man to drop the gun, not an easy feat considering the counter between them.

            He holds him in place until the police make their way over, removing the guns and cuffing all three would-be robbers.

            Carter gives him a long, hard look. “Next time, don’t play the hero,” she says. “Someone could get hurt.”

            “Next time, don’t take so long,” he says. He looks over at Harold. “You okay, Harold?”

            “Yes, thank you, Mr. Reese,” he says, still-shaking hands smoothing out his jacket. “And you?”

            “Be fine, Harold,” Reese says, trying to summon up a smile but not really thinking he’s too successful at it.

            “The hospital can be the judge of that,” Carter’s no-nonsense voice cuts it. “Ambulance is on its way.”

            Reese doesn’t protest. He doesn’t particularly want to go and knows he doesn’t have to—he’s an adult and all he has to do is refuse treatment—but something tells him that Carter will get him in that ambulance regardless. Besides, if he goes, he has a better chance of being able to make sure Harold really is okay.

            He turns to see Shaw pocketing her phone and closing the now-empty register. “Don’t suppose we could have our money back,” she says.

            Carter shakes her head. “Police evidence.”

            She nods. “Thought you’d say that. Do you need me here for something? Got a class in an hour I need to leave for.”

            Carter raises an eyebrow. “Talk to Fusco on your way out.” After Shaw departs, Carter turns back to Reese. “She always that calm? Would’ve made a damn fine cop.”

            “Gonna make a better surgeon,” Reese says. “You pull enough bullets outta people in the field, you see enough wounds from roadside bombs and IEDs, everything else starts to look routine.”

            “And clearly you turn into some sort of superhero,” she says sharply.  
            Reese shrugs. “I wasn’t pulling the bullets out. I was more shooting them.”

            “You know what I mean, John,” she says. “What you did was reckless.”

            “He was going to kill him,” Reese says quietly. “I knew it. I could tell. Don’t ask me how. Killers’ instinct, or something. But he was. And I couldn’t let that happen.”

            Carter softens. “Alright. Wait for the paramedics.”

            There’s a cop talking to Harold but Carter shoos him away. “How you doin’, Mr. ...” she trails off.

            “Finch,” he supplies. “My name is Harold Finch.”

            Reese files that information away. He can’t believe it took near-death to learn the man’s last name.

            “How you doing, Mr. Finch?” she asks again.

            “F…fine, I suppose,” he says, and Reese notes that the shaking in Harold’s hands has calmed a bit.

            “Not hurt? Looked like a lot of punches, flying,” Carter observes.

            “I’m…I’m afraid they cracked my glasses,” he observes, and Reese’s eyes catch on the cracked frames. “I myself am unharmed.”

            “Looks like everyone was lucky today,” she says. “But I’d really like if you went to the hospital with John over there, Mr. Finch. Just to be safe.”

            “Yes, I…I suppose that is a good idea,” Harold admits.

            The paramedics arrive. Reese answers their questions as quick as he can, with short, precise answers. They still drag him off to the hospital, regardless of him assuring them he’ll be fine. But it’s not all bad. Harold is being taken down too, and at least he’ll get confirmation that the man is okay.

            Reese ends up diagnosed with a concussion and stranded in the ER until he can come up with someone to escort him home. Evidently they don’t trust the concussed man to be able to properly give a cabbie directions or take the subway unaided.

            He could call Shaw, but she’s still in class, and he happens to know she has a date afterwards. And even if Shaw would ever forgive him for making her miss her date, Reese knows for a fact that her girlfriend, Samantha, would not be as forgiving. She calls herself _Root_ and thinks of herself as some great hacker, and Reese isn’t really sure that she _couldn’t_ hack his online banking and destroy his credit, so he leaves well enough alone.

            He could call Carter or Fusco, but having to call the police for a ride is just embarrassing. Plus, he could never give Fusco the satisfaction.

            He’s in the middle of trying to convince the nurse to just let him call a cab when a quiet voice speaks up from the doorway. “Excuse me, but I will bring him home.”

            Reese stops trying to persuade the nurse and looks over at Harold. “You sure?” he asks.

            The man gives him an appraising look. “You saved my life today, Mr. Reese, I think I can stand to give you a ride home.”

            The nurse agrees, reminds Reese to take care of himself and hands him the paperwork with care instructions.

            “You’re not hurt?” Reese checks as they walk out of the hospital. Reese slows down to match Harold’s limping pace as he tries to decide if Harold’s limp is more exaggerated than usual. Harold immediately begins to attempt to hail a cab.

            “No, Mr. Reese, I appear to be as fine as ever. Thanks to you,” he adds.

            “It’s no problem, Harold,” he pauses a moment. “Mr. Finch.”

            Harold is spared from responding by the cab that stops for them. They climb in the back and John gives his address.

            “You should take tomorrow off,” Harold says quietly. “And perhaps the next day as well. You need some time to recuperate.”

            “I’m fine,” Reese insists. “And besides, a day off…can’t really justify…”

            “I will take care of it,” Harold assures him.

            Reese raises an eyebrow. “Do you know my boss? I don’t even know my boss.”

            Harold clears his throat. “Technically, I _am_ your boss,” he admits. “And I will see you get two days paid vacation. Please take them; I would like to ensure your recovery.”

            All Reese can think to say is, “you own a coffee shop? Never guessed that one.”

            Harold’s lips quirk into the ghost of a smile. “I do many things, Mr. Reese, I don’t imagine you could have guessed them all. Now, will you be alright on your own? Should I stay? Or call someone for you, if you’d prefer?”

            Reese smiles. “I’ll be alright,” he says. “I’ve had worse and been just fine. Don’t worry about me.” The cab comes to a stop in front of Reese’s apartment building. He reaches for his wallet but Harold stops him.

            “Don’t worry about it,” he says quietly.

            Reese nods his head in thanks. “I’ll see you, bright and early, two days from now,” he says as he opens the door.

            “Yes,” Harold confirms quietly, “I suppose you will.”

 

            On the second day, John decides he can no longer sit at home and instead dresses and takes the subway down to the Machine. He tells himself it’s just to make sure that everyone is okay. He purposely doesn’t think that he will make it there just before eleven and may be there in time to see Harold.

            Of course, that is only if Harold is still coming in for tea. After revealing his big secret, he may very well have vanished into thin air. After all, he avoided the shop for a week when Reese knew his order too well. Reese can’t imagine what will happen now that Reese knows both his last name and profession.

            It’s busy when he gets there, and he winces at the thought of Shaw all alone behind the counter. But when he gets closer, he realizes there’s a shorter man behind the counter.

            Reese starts. He never would have recognized him out of his pristine suit. But it’s Harold behind the counter, wearing an apron and making change at the register.

            He pushes up to the counter and Harold looks up at him. “You are supposed to be resting. Mr. Reese,” he says disapprovingly.

            “And you’re not supposed to be managing a register,” he counters.

            “Well, someone had to help out Ms. Shaw, and I’m afraid I’m the best option.”

            “Did you tell her you’re her boss?” Reese asks.

            “It seemed best,” Harold says, making change and handing it over to a woman with a tall Frappuccino. “Otherwise she might question what I was doing behind the counter, handling the money.”

            “Well, I can work the rest of my shift, if you want,” Reese offers.

            “No, you will not,” Harold says. “You can order a drink, if you’d like, but I meant what I said about two days to rest.”

            Reese groans. “I’m fine, you know. You got knocked around worse than I did, if anyone shouldn’t be working, it’s you.”

            “I’m fine, Mr. Reese,” Harold says. “Would you like a drink?”

            Reese sighs and orders a black coffee from Shaw and then goes back to Harold to pay, who waves him away. “I’ll take care of it, Mr. Reese,” he says. “Go sit down, I’ll bring it to you. My break is about to start.”

            Harold eventually takes off his apron and limps over, holding a cup of black coffee and one of Sencha green tea. “You’re limping more than usual,” Reese observes. “It’s from when they pushed you down, isn’t it?”

            Harold gives a long-suffering sigh. “I imagine so, yes. And I’ll limp a little more today and tomorrow and eventually I’ll be back to normal.”

            “You shouldn’t be on your feet, working.”

            “I’m on my feet every day, Mr. Reese, and I do just fine,” Harold says firmly.

            Reese lets it go. He knows he won’t win, so he sips his coffee.

            They’re silent and it’s uncomfortable. Reese feels like he should be saying something, like he forgot his lines somewhere along the way. “So…you own a coffee shop,” Reese says eventually.

            Harold’s lips quirk into that half smile. “I do many things, Mr. Reese. And I afraid you’d be bored if I listed all of them.”

            “I doubt that,” John says. “You’re a very interesting person, Harold.”

            He raises an eyebrow. “You hardly know me, Mr. Reese.”

            “You like Sencha green tea and blueberry muffins, you come in at six fifteen and eleven, every day. You pay cash and don’t give your last name, and don’t tell anyone you own this place, or what you do, so I’m guessing you like your privacy.”

            “Very astute,” Harold says dryly.

            “I’d like to know more,” Reese admits.

            “As you said, I am a very private person.”

            “That’s fine,” Reese says quietly. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I’ll wait.”

            “Just what are you suggesting, Mr. Reese?” Harold asks.

            “Have dinner with me,” Reese says impulsively, leaning forward across the table. “Just dinner, Harold. You don’t have to tell me anything, or do anything. Just dinner.”

            Harold looks startled and it takes him a moment to get his voice back. “Do you have somewhere in particular in mind?” he asks.

            Reese blinks, unable to believe he’s hearing right. He thought for sure he was going to be rejected. “Do you have a favorite?” he asks as calmly as possible.

            Harold smiles and picks up his cup. “Tell you what,” he says. “I will pick you up. Friday night, at seven. Until then, I have to get back to work, and you are supposed to be resting, at home. Should I call you a cab?”

            “No, Reese murmurs, “I’m fine. Friday?”

            “Friday,” Harold promises before returning to the counter.


	2. The Date

Friday comes, and Reese can’t figure out what he wants to wear.

He thinks the white button-down, opened at the collar, with the suit coat over it, and the nice slacks look okay together. But maybe Harold picked somewhere nicer to eat, and Reese should get a tie. Maybe even a nicer jacket. He doesn’t own a nicer jacket and he wishes that he thought about all this a few hours ago, when he had time to maybe find something.

Harold always dresses nice, suit and tie nearly every day, and the man clearly has money, and Reese doesn’t want to look like some dumb schmuck, who can’t even dress for a date properly. But he doesn’t want to look stiff and too formal either, like he’s trying too hard to impress.

Before he can make up his mind, there’s a knock at the apartment door. He straightens his jacket, accepts that there’s no more time to change anything, and opens the door.

Harold’s dressed as always, impeccable and distinguished, and Reese can’t decide if this is casual for Harold or if Harold is actually dressed for a place that would require such a dress code. But Harold smiles softly when he sees him, and that gentle and rare smile sets Reese somewhat at ease. He can’t have messed anything up too badly if Harold is looking at him like that.

But then he thinks about what Harold has seen--the ratty apartment building, even inside his apartment that’s held together with duct tape and spit--and feels something akin to shame. He does not blush, he’s trained such reactions out of himself long ago, but he does feel it, deep in his gut.

He’s not one to be ashamed, not of this. He’s not proud of what he has but he’s not embarrassed, either, at least he wasn’t until he has Harold walking through it, seeing Reese’s life. He doesn’t think Harold is the type of man to judge others too harshly but he also thinks that this can’t be what Harold is used to.

But Harold doesn’t blink, doesn’t peer around or make obvious notes of things in his mind. Instead, he seems to be focused almost entirely on Reese, and says, “I’ve made reservations for eight, if you’re ready…” he trails off, and Reese nods, stepping out and locking his door behind him.

Harold apparently drove, and he slips behind the driver’s seat of a late model, discrete black sedan. Reese gets in the passenger’s side and buckles up.

“So,” he begins, “where are we eating?”

Harold quirks that small smile once more. “A steakhouse I know, if that’s alright with you,” Harold says, glancing over at Reese. “I probably should have asked if you were a vegetarian.”

“Steak sounds great,” Reese says.

The restaurant is, as Reese probably should have predicted, in a nicer part of town. He returns to feeling underdressed and worried about what a slob he looks like.

Thankfully, the steakhouse itself seems trendy, and Reese thinks he blends in decently. No one seems to be dressed as stiffly as Harold, at any rate.

They’re seated almost immediately and John side-eyes Harold, wondering just what kind of connection the man has to the place to get immediately seated at some trendy restaurant on a Friday night. Harold remains as cool and mysterious as ever.

They order drinks before conversation really begins, and Reese says, “So...a coffee shop owner.”

Harold looks amused. “Mr. Reese, why are you so fixated on this?”

Reese is beginning to wish that Harold would call him by his first name, or even just “Reese”, anything less formal will do. “I was beginning to think you were in the mob,” Reese admits. “It would explain your complete and total reluctance to interact with people.”

Harold makes an inelegant snorting sounds. “I see,” he says. “And what did you imagine I did for the mob?”

Reese considers. “I didn’t know,” he says. “I mean, I thought you might keep the books or something. But, what the hell did I know? Maybe you’re actually a hitman.”

“I assure you Mr. Reese, I am not a hitman,” he says, and before Reese can chime in, he says, “nor do I keep the books for the mob. I am not a mobster.”

He’s quiet for a moment before saying, “I simply did quite well for myself, after college. And I turned around and invested that money in several other ventures, quite a few of which took off. Like the Machine.”

It’s more information than Reese expected. “Thank you,” he says before he can stop himself, because he’s sure that’s not the appropriate reaction.

But Harold just says, “You’re welcome” in a very quiet voice, and the conversation trails off for a moment.

Reese tries to resurrect it. “I was a soldier,” he says. “Always was going to be. Dad was, too, and grandpa and my great-grandpa too. Anyways, I joined up. And then I came back and now I work at the Machine. But I bet you knew all that,” he finishes.

“Most of it,” Harold says with a small incline of his head. “Nevertheless, it is actually nice to hear things from people rather than just reading them off of a piece of paper. And you are being quite modest, Mr. Reese. You distinguished yourself greatly while overseas.”

Reese looks at his plate before forcing himself to look back into Harold’s eyes. “I don’t like to talk about that much,” he says.

Harold nods. “I understand. What do you like to talk about?”

They pass the time talking baseball, interrupted briefly by a waiter taking their orders before they go back to discussing statistics--which Reese struggles to recall, but Harold seems to almost have memorized.

Their steaks show up. Reese doesn’t think he’s ever seen such a large, fancy looking array of food, but digs in as Harold does. It’s delicious, but, then again, he never thought it wouldn’t be.

“Do you come here often?” Reese asks.

Harold looks up at him, judging his question, and Reese panics briefly that he crossed a line, before Harold says, “no, I don’t suppose I do. I tend to have very few places I frequent.”

“So, what makes the Machine special?” Reese asks.

“The tea is good,” Harold says, then, almost shyly, “and the company is quite nice, too.”

“We’re better company when you talk to us,” Reese offers.

“I suppose so,” Harold agrees. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly eat any more of this.”

Harold is finished about half his plate, and Reese looks down at this, almost empty. He finishes while Harold calls for a takeaway box and the check.

Reese reaches for his wallet but Harold stops him. “Mr. Reese, I’ll get this. I invited you, after all.”

“Actually,” Reese points out, even though he’s silently relieved he doesn’t have to look at that bill, “I asked you.”

“Yes, well, I picked the restaurant. And if you insist on paying I shall let you, but you shall find your paycheck next week to contain the amount of the bill.”

“Fine, fine,” Reese says.

He thinks the look on Harold’s face is a triumphant little smirk, but it’s hard to tell with his head bent down towards the check.

Harold’s food comes back, boxed, and the waiter takes the bill before returning a few minutes later with Harold’s card. He tips, signs, and collects the container with his food in it before saying, “shall we go, then?”

Reese nods and stands. Harold does too, slower, with seemingly more effort. Reese doesn’t comment, sufficiently reassured that it will be unwelcome.

The valet goes to collect the car and Reese subtly watches Harold. who looks like the act of standing at the curb is giving him pain.

“There’s a bench,” he says quietly, nodding at the bench against the restaurant just behind them.

Harold seems to debate it for a moment before accepting it as the best course of action, hobbling over and taking a seat. Reese follows him.

“Thank you, Mr. Reese,” he says. “I must admit, my leg--it is a little worse for wear tonight.”

Reese thinks that that is an understatement but says nothing, standing guard over Harold and his vulnerability until the car arrives.

“Can you drive?” Reese blurts out.

Harold’s lips twitch into that half-smile. “Perfectly adequately, Mr. Reese, I assure you.” He walks to the car, slowly but without falter, and slides into the driver’s seat.

He does indeed drive just fine, turning even further downtown. “I have tickets, to a performance this evening,” he says. “I thought, perhaps, a walk, but when my leg started to act up this morning, I made the decision to purchase the tickets. Of course, you don’t have to come, Mr. Reese, and I am more than willing to drive you home.”

“I’d like to come,” Reese says. “What type of performance?”

“Oh!” Says Harold. “It’s a jazz concert.”

“You a jazz fan, Harold?” Reese asks.

Harold turns his head just enough to spare Reese an amused glance. “I’m sorry to disappoint you in your quest to know me, Mr. Reese, but I simply ordered the first tickets with available seats this morning.”

Reese makes some noise of understanding but privately thinks that there is more to it than that. Rich, apparently well-connected Mr. Finch could undoubtedly get tickets to whatever show he desired, yet he chose this one.

They reach the venue and Reese realizes that it’s small, intimate almost, essentially a club set up for a concert for the night.

Their tickets are collected at the door and they’re shown to a booth. Harold declines the offered drink and instead orders a club soda, but encourages Reese to order a beer, which he does.

The show starts soon after they get there and, despite knowing next to nothing about jazz, Reese thinks the show is pretty good. Great, even.

Some others get up to dance, but Reese and Harold stay firmly in their seats. Even if he did know what he was doing, Reese is pretty sure dancing is something Harold’s leg injuries aren’t up for coping with.

The show ends to thunderous applause, and, as the venue empties, Reese helps Harold to his feet. Harold doesn’t protest but also doesn’t let Reese help him out of the club, despite his frighteningly listing limp.

They wait for the car once more and Harold ends up leaning against Reese a little, although neither of them mention it. Once the car arrives, Harold gets behind the wheel once more and begins to drive uptown.

“I had a lovely evening,” he says as they draw closer to Reese’s apartment. “I...appreciate you asking me to come out tonight. I understand I am not the most...open of people. I appreciate the effort.”

Reese smiles. “I’m glad you had fun, Harold. And I should be thanking you--for agreeing, and for taking me.”

“It’s no problem, Mr. Reese.”

“I wish you would call me John,” Reese says.

Harold is quiet for a beat, then, “Very well. It’s no problem, John.”

“Thank you.”

Harold pulls up in front of the building. “Would you...would you like to come up for coffee?” Reese asks, not wanting their night to end just yet. He wishes his building had an elevator.

Harold seems to have the same thought. “Thank you, John, for the offer. But I had better not.”

Reese nods his acceptance. “Right. I had--I had a great time, Harold, thank you. See you tomorrow morning?”

Harold smiles. “As ever, John.”

Reese wants to lean across the seat and kiss him, but he knows it’s too soon, would not be welcomed now, if it would ever be. He settles for one last smile and leaves the car.

Harold doesn’t pull away until Reese has let himself into the graffitied heavy building door.

Reese begins the long climb to his apartment, throwing open his door before closing it once more and locking each of the three locks for the night.

He collapses onto the couch, exhausted, but undeniably happy.

 

Morning comes sooner than expected and Reese practically has to drag himself to work. He falls asleep on the train and nearly misses his stop, and he’s scattered enough that it takes him an extra moment to get his apron on correctly.

Shaw actually beat him there and is giving him a disparaging look as she finishes up opening the shop.

Yet somehow, Reese is still happy.

Six fifteen rolls around and the door opens like clockwork. Reese begins to get the tea together, and gets a muffin.

“Morning,” he says, shy now.

Harold smiles back. “Good morning.”

Harold pays Shaw for his tea and muffin and waits for Reese to hand them over. Reese gives him his purchases, and instead of picking it up after Reese has deposited it on the counter, he takes them directly from Reese, letting their fingers brush.

“I have to go now,” he says quietly. “I have a meeting this morning. But I could...take my lunch here? With you?”

Reese swallows. This is more than he expected. “One o’clock?”

Harold smiles. “See you then, John.” He walks out the door, looking distinctly better than he did last night.

He turns to find Shaw staring at him. “What?”

“John?” she asks. “And...you’re having lunch together?”

Reese shrugs. Her eyes narrow.

“Are you going to become Mr. Reese-Finch and live with the coffee shop billionaire?” Shaw asks.

“He owns things other than coffee shops, too,” Reese says, and he knows that’s not a satisfactory answer. “We went out once, that’s all.”

“And you’re having lunch today,” she points out.

He shrugs and goes back to putting together the display.

Carter and Fusco walk in at quarter past seven, and Reese starts grabbing coffee and donuts.

“Anything good?” Carter asks Shaw as she pays.

“Reese had a date last night. And another one today,” she says like she’s telling Carter about a somewhat interesting weather report.

Carter turns to him. “Really? Who with, John?”

“Harold,” he says, voice an uncharacteristic, nearly indistinguishable mumble.

He should have known Carter would hear it, though. Her eyebrows raise. “The little guy from last week?”

“Yeah,” Shaw says. “And our boss.”

Reese doesn’t think Shaw is supposed to go spreading that around but he supposes it can’t be helped now. Carter might know anyways, considering Harold made the police report on the attempted robbery.

“Poor guy. He okay after what happened?” she asks.

“He’s fine,” Reese says quietly as he hands over the coffee and the donuts to Fusco.

They take their breakfast to a table and business picks up, keeping them busy. Harold doesn’t show up at eleven, like he usually does, and even though Reese knows he’s coming in later instead, he still gets a little antsy, like the sinking feeling he used to get when he thought maybe he scared Harold off and he wasn’t coming back anymore.

They’re quiet around one, quiet enough for Reese to take his break, so he pulls off his apron and waits for Harold.

He doesn’t have to wait long for him to arrive, and he thinks maybe his smile is a little too obvious when he does.

Harold nods at the door. “I thought, perhaps...there’s a lovely cafe near the park, if you’d like to join me.”

“I only have half an hour,” Reese reminds him.

“Yes, of course. we’ll get sandwiches and be quick,” Harold assures him. “Shall we?”

Reese follows him out the door, briefly looking down to make sure he doesn’t have any coffee, syrup, or sugar stains on his shirt. It’s clean, and he heaves a sigh of relief.

The cafe is busy, so they order at the counter and take their sandwiches to go, walking into the park and sitting at the first available bench.

They eat quietly but companionably, enjoying the sunshine and the overall pleasant day. When he’s done, Harold sets the container for his sandwich aside and rubs his head.

“You okay?” Reese asks.

Harold looks up and smiles that crooked smile. “It would seem I’m rather more dependent on my second cup of tea than I thought, and I’m afraid going without  
it has given me the start of a caffeine headache.”

“We’ll get you a cup before you go again,” Reese says. “Big one. It’ll help.”

“Yes, thank you,” he says. He checks his watch and Reese looks over at the dial as well and realizes that they’re almost out of time.

“John, I was wondering--next Saturday, I’ve procured two tickets to a show, and was wondering if you’d like to join me?”

“Sure,” Reese agrees. “Which show?”

Harold is smiling again. “I thought I’d let that be a surprise. I’ll see you between now and then, of course, but just so we know--dinner again, before the show?”

Reese smiles back. “Sounds good, Harold.”

“Wonderful. You need to be getting back, and I need my tea, I think,” he says briskly.

They walk back to the coffeeshop and Reese sends Shaw out on her break before preparing Harold’s tea.

As promised, he makes it larger than normal, the way he sometimes does for preferred customers at no extra charge. He supposes Harold is just a different type of preferred customer.

“Thank you,” Harold says when Reese hands him the tea, their hands brushing again this time, only now Harold prolongs the contact. “So--shall I see you tomorrow morning?”

“Of course,” Reese says. “Have a good day, Harold.”

Harold limps out of the shop and then Reese is alone but the one lone customer on their laptop in the corner. He smiles slightly to himself as he watches Harold through the window until he can’t see him anymore.

He doesn’t know where this relationship is going, or how it’s even going to get there and, truthfully, he doesn’t think Harold has the first clue anymore than he does. But that doesn’t matter.

As long as Harold keeps promising to show up day after day, Reese figures they can work out just about anything.


End file.
